Friday, 21 December 2012

Everyone in the
office looked shocked to see Mike when he walked in. He knew he wasn’t looking
his best, but he also knew that wasn’t the reason for their look. He had sat in
the car for ten minutes, wondering if this was the right thing to do, but was
unable to think of anything else. He was awake, he was dressed, and it was only
Wednesday, so it was time to go to work.

His clothes were
rumpled and stained. He had been wearing them since yesterday morning –only yesterday? – and he hadn’t even had
a chance to change his underwear or socks. But it was a work day, so he was
there.

As he had stared
out through the windscreen, hot eyes following the teardrops of rain which ran
down the windscreen, he had attempted to gather himself together ready to face
the day. He had scrubbed his hands down across his face, hearing and feeling
the sandpaper rasp of stubble on his palms. He had known he looked bad, with
his hair unwashed and his body reeking of adrenaline sweat, but it was
Wednesday, so he had to go to work.

The shocked
looks followed him to his desk in silence and gathered around him. No-one left
their desk, no-one said a word. They all knew what had happened, but none of
them knew what to say. So they said nothing. Mike wasn’t surprised. He was the
one it had happened to and he didn’t know what to say either. But it was a work
day, so he was here.

He sat at his
desk and stared at his computer. He didn’t type anything, or touch the mouse.
But when the phone rang he picked it up and answered. His voice sounded normal
to his ears, and he asked all the right questions and gave all the right
answers. He made no notes, made no move even to pick up his pen, and as soon as
the phone was returned to its rest he had forgotten it all. In his mind, all he
could see was his wife where he had left her: sitting by Daniel’s bed, still in
the jeans and t-shirt she had been wearing yesterday, her knees pulled up to
her chest, her hands over her face, and every fibre of her being forcing him
from the room, forcing him to leave her alone in her grief. Downstairs in the
kitchen the radio had told him it was still only Wednesday morning – the spirits had done it all in one night!
– and that it was time to go to work.

At lunchtime he
went to the cafeteria. He bought a meal deal without speaking to anyone,
enduring the stares and the whispers, and sat at his usual table with the
sandwich and the crisps and the drink unopened in front of him. He looked at
the food and knew that Daniel would never eat anything again. After ten minutes
of sitting, he placed the unopened box, bag and bottle in the bin and returned upstairs
for the afternoon’s work.

No-one spoke to
him as he sat at his desk, but from time to time one or another of his
colleagues approached him. He didn’t look up or acknowledge them, but carried
on staring at his blank monitor screen. He was waiting, but he didn’t know for
what. He was just waiting. Whichever colleague it was would stand behind him
for a time, from moments to minutes, and then would retreat again. Mike heard
the whispered conversations that followed these attempts, but the words were
meaningless to him. There had been whispering in the hospital, between the
doctors and the nurses, but it had also meant nothing. All that had mattered
had been his son’s swollen face, the glass-filled gashes on his chest, and the
feel of his small hand holding onto Mike’s much larger, but utterly helpless
one.

When five thirty
arrived, the other people in the office started to pack up and leave. One
person placed a hand on Mike’s shoulder as they passed, but still nothing was
said. Mike took that as he cue. He stood and left the office with the others.
He stood, silently, in the lift with them. He walked out of the building with
them and returned to his car.

He sat, staring
out through the windscreen, into the dark winter evening, as the car-park
emptied around him. The black windscreen played images to him, of his wife
dropping the phone and falling to the floor, screaming, of Daniel’s chest
rising and falling, rising and falling, hitching and stilling, and of himself being pushed backwards by a
passing doctor as a single tone filled the world and everyone had a job to do
except for him.

He watched these
memories as they looped, over and over. He wanted to scream and cry, but he
couldn’t. His hands tightened on the steering wheel and nothing happened. He
thought about driving home. He thought about driving away. He tried to imagine
that Thursday might follow on from Wednesday.